The door opened. It was raining hard outside. O'Reilly's driver stood in the rain to hold an umbrella over the door opening. O'Reilly was just about to extend one $500 Italian shoe and the tailored pant leg that hung over it out onto the sidewalk in front of the Westwood One Studio building when something moving fast thumped hard into his open door and splashed into the gutter with a little cry.

"You fucking terrorist!" O'Reilly yelled at his driver. "What the fuck are you trying to do to me?"

"Sorry, sir," the driver mumbled. "I'll get it out of your way. Looks like some old dildo or something."

"Dildo?" O'Reilly said, his eyes lighting up. "I love dildos. I love how they look like cocks. Women love phone sex with a guy who gives them a dildo. Pick it up and dry it off. I want it!"

The driver bent over, picked the dildo up with his thumb and forefinger, took it around up front. Somewhere in a side pocket of the driver's area he had stashed a dirty old rag. O'Reilly watched intently from the back, then gave the famous grimace of disgust his fans know and love--the one that signals to his audience that his guest is an Enemy of the State.

"You fucking liberal," he said, "you traitor, you hater of America, you're not going to wipe my dildo off with a fucking oily old rag. Pass it back here. I'll do it."

So the driver passed the dildo back through the window. O'Reilly took it lovingly in his hands.

"My God," he said. "It's gorgeous. It must be a foot and a half long. And it looks like--goddamn if it doesn't look exactly like Karl Rove! I gotta call Andrea Makris. I know she'll want to have phone sex with me now!"

He reached for the car phone and speed-dialed Ms. Makris's cell phone number, exchanging significant glances with his driver as the phone rang.

"Hi, Andrea? It's Bill. Listen, have I ever got the toy for you! I'm gonna bring it right over. Of course I know I'm your boss! That's why I'm the-- No, listen! I want to tell you about my Caribbean fantasy. We fly down there together, see, and check into a five-star hotel, and you're in the shower, soaping up those big boobs, and I come in behind you and take that little loofa thing and start soaping you all over--"

The driver later described the carnage that then ensued:

"That fucking thing went berserk. The dildo, I mean. I mean, it was alive, sort of. Some kinda, I don't know, alien or something. Mr. O'Reilly had leaned it up against the wet bar, and while he was talking on the phone to Ms. Makris and, uh, well, what's the word for it--well, masturbating--that thing started rifling through the drawers until it found a tiny little knife, you know, the kind you use to cut up limes for margaritas. And before I knew it the inside of the limo was speckled with Mr. O'Reilly's blood, and the car was rocking back and forth with his frantic attempts to escape. By the time I could come back around to the side door, Mr. O'Reilly was dead, with his, uh, penis and testicles cut off and stuffed down his mouth and the, uh, telephone receiver stuffed up the, uh--I don't know what to call it--the hole left where his genitals had been cut off. The phone was sticking out about halfway. And that little dildo, or, well, I guess it was actually Karl Rove all along, was standing at the doorway covered in blood and menacing me with the knife. I got out of the way, let me tell you! I'm no hero. I'm just a driver. I don't have a death wish. I stepped back, and little Rove jumped out and ran down the street squealing. And that's all I know, I swear it."

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# posted by Doug Robinson @ 7:16 AM